


Caprice

by Rinforzando



Category: Love Live! School Idol Project
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Friendship, Romance, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinforzando/pseuds/Rinforzando
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico introduces ship pandering to μ's. The following months are a train wreck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caprice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nicotachi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicotachi/gifts).



> Dedicated to my dear friends. You know who you are. Thank you.
> 
> I do not own Love Live! School Idol Project.
> 
> Also on [tumblr](http://nicomaki-trashblog.tumblr.com/post/110647545417/caprice).
> 
> * * *

ca·price

 ** _noun_**  \kə-ˈprēs\

 **1a** **.**  a sudden, impulsive, and seemingly unmotivated notion or action  
**1b.** a sudden usually unpredictable condition, change, or series of changes  
**2.** a disposition to do things impulsively

\- Merriam-Webster

* * *

μ's doesn’t spend time with each other anymore.

For a while, you don’t notice—or care.  Ever since you all have debuted as real, professional idols, there just hasn’t been any time to _think_.  Everything is go, go, _go_ —chop chop!  Wake up, slip on the costumes, smile at the fans, run from one stage to the next—oh, and that two hour break everyone’s banking on?  Sorry, just got replaced by an impromptu group interview!

It’s just that, at the end of the day, what used to be congratulatory hugs and high-fives become lukewarm, weary smiles that speak of sore muscles and even sorer eyes, gone itchy and raw from incessant flash photography.  No one has any energy left to spend on each other anymore, only on μ's: their career, their success.

Between the bone-deep aches from consecutive concerts, the hoarse vocal cords from hour long recording sessions, the grating headaches from drafting compositions only to toss them in the trash, there’s little left on your mind but the desire to hermit, to burrow yourself deep in soft sateen sheets and let the day’s exhaustion melt away in the comfort of your king-sized bed at home.  Even then, sleep is only a momentary reprieve.  There is no stopping—not yet—because this is only the beginning, and Mama always told you, when you start something, you need to go _hard_.  Ride on the momentum, drive it to its fullest potential, or otherwise people will forget about you.  Another name lost in history, remembered only by few niche crowds whose mantras will always be: so much potential, but what a darn shame.

The scary thing is, fading away to obscurity is a real possibility.  Popularity charts since your debut show a steep upwards slope, a sharp ascent to fame, but graphs in the recent months illustrate nothing but a depressing stagnancy.  Flat lines, barren plateaus.

“We’re not competing with just other school idol groups anymore,” Umi stresses one day at the head of the conference table.  There are dark circles under her eyes—probably from staying up late the previous night to prepare for their monthly debriefing, but to the untrained eye, it’d be hard to tell.  Makeup, you have learned—as you all have learned—just works wonders in masking fatigue.

Umi unrolls a poster of last month’s ranking rosters, smoothing away the crinkles before tacking it onto the bulletin board.  “There are rock bands,” she continues, whipping out her pointer stick and tracing it along select names on the charts, “metal bands, jazz bands”—she wrinkles her nose—“boy bands.”

She turns around, leaning forward and placing her palms flat on the table, staring everyone down before proceeding.  “My point is that we have a more diverse cast of rivals now.  While we are performing more than we ever have before, we cannot simply repeat what we’ve done in high school and expect greater recognition.  Repetition, to a point, becomes bland.  We must diversify!  Expand our appeal to larger audiences!”

Rin pumps her fist into the air.  “We need something new, nya!”

“That’s right,” Umi confirms.  “We need to tread onto different genres.  Change our image!” she declares, puffing up her chest and thrusting her pointer stick, looking like a child posing as a gallant knight.  You struggle not to flush out of secondhand embarrassment.

“But where would we even start?” Hanayo asks.  “Where would our focus be?”

Honoka stands up from her seat, suddenly invigorated.  “That’s easy!” she pipes up.  “We can look into other groups and learn from their techniques and styles!  It’ll be like the idol research club all over again!  Then we can pick what we like best and go with that!”

“I can observe their fashion, too,” Kotori adds, nodding, already flipping through her sketch notebook and doodling ideas.  “It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out how to make trendy costumes from other genres!”

“And I can watch their music videos to see if I can mimic their dance steps.  It’d be nice to try some hip-hop or something.  That’s a style we haven’t really ventured into.”

“That’s right, that’s right!” Honoka exclaims, tackling Eli from behind and hugging her.  Eli grunts like air is getting punched out of her lungs.  “And Maki-chan is already a genius at composing all types of music!  She can whip up a masterpiece in no time!”

“Sure… Yeah,” you acquiesce, already feeling the callouses on your fingers throb from the thought of late nights slumped over the piano, with nothing to show but a bucket full of scrapped ideas.

You’re honored that Honoka thinks so highly of you—that they all do.  It’s stifling, though.  When you glance over at the others, you see them look at you with respect—but it’s the type of admiration that’s loaded with expectations.  You know that the others have their roles and responsibilities, too, but you have to wonder how they’re managing.  Over the years, you’ve learned, with much pessimism, that carrying the confidence of the group is both an inspiration and a shackle.

“These are all excellent ideas!”  Umi nods vigorously, pulling out a whiteboard, uncapping a marker, and jotting down suggestions in neat grids and flow charts.  She traces her hands over the notes, stroking her chin thoughtfully as she adds, “This sort of transformation will require even more rigorous workouts, though.”

 “A-And if we want to keep that up, we’ll have to come up with a nutrition plan to supplement our training!” Hanayo proposes, clenching her fists, her eyes carrying a faraway look that you bet is just her fantasizing about food.

“Kayo-chin just wants to eat more rice balls, nya!”

“T-That’s not true!  Well…”  Hanayo shrinks back, but Rin closes in and pinches her cheeks.

You smiles at your two friends, because it’s moments like these that remind you that even though you’re all colleagues and co-workers now, you’re still friends despite everything.  Their relationship is something you’re a little envious of, though.  You’ve never had anyone to call a life-long friend, and you wonder how that must be, having someone grow alongside you, learning about their aspirations, fears—watching them overcome the uncertainties of life.  It must be a nice experience.  Then again, you’re only eighteen.  There’s plenty of time.

Somewhere in the midst of your thoughts, your eyes stray to Nico, and you notice that she’s sulking in the corner, sending everyone judgmental looks.  It’s the type of expression she wears whenever she seethes quietly, expecting to be ignored.  That won’t do.  “What’s up, Nico-chan?” you call out, hoping to get her involved in the conversation.  “You’ve been a little quiet.”

“Yeah,” she acknowledges, pressing her lips together.  “I don’t like this.”

“What’s wrong?” Honoka asks.

“What’s wrong?” Nico echoes.  “What’s _wrong_?  Look, we’ve been going nonstop ever since we’ve debuted, and we’re planning to dump some extra ambitious regimen onto our _already_ overbooked schedule?  Well?  No one’s concerned about this?  Where are we even going to find the time to relax in between work?”

Hanayo shrinks in her chair.  “Nico-chan…”

“In case anyone’s forgotten, we have lives outside of μ's,” she says, and you have no doubt that she’s thinking about her little siblings at home.  “Not to mention—and don’t even _pretend_ —I’ve noticed how much makeup everyone’s been caking on.”  You grimace, resisting the urge to run to a mirror and confirm it for yourself.  Has it really been that obvious?

“And that’s just it,” she continues.  “We’re all exhausted.  We’ve tried changing our image before, back in high school, and it just hasn’t worked.  Granted, we might have a better plan drawn out this time, but still.  Are we really going to drive ourselves to the ground?  Are we really going to dig ourselves into an early grave?”  Nico leans forward on the table, rubbing a hand over her temple.  “Look—I _love_ being an idol.  I love that everyone is willing to put in 150% of themselves for μ’s.  I love that we’re all together, creating something special for ourselves, for the people who love our work—but I _hate_ that we’re destroying ourselves in the process.”

“That’s…”  Umi’s shoulders slump.

“And, did anyone even care to _think_ about Kotori?”  Nico’s looking directly at Umi now, and you can’t help but wince in sympathy as Umi shrinks back.  “Do you know how long it takes to make the costumes?  Think about it—gathering the fabric, cutting it up precisely to fit our measurements, sewing everything together—and that’s not even counting the conceptualization, the planning, or the drawing process!” Nico looks winded by the end of her rant, and even you feel exhausted afterward.

Kotori sets down her sketchbook.  “Nico-chan, you don’t have to worry—”

“Shush.”  Nico places a finger over Kotori’s mouth.  You bristle.  How inappropriate.  “Kotori, you’re the _least_ objective person here when it comes to your own health,” Nico says, her tone softening.  “Let us look after you sometimes, okay?” she finishes, and you try to quell the strange feeling in your chest when you see Nico looking at her so tenderly.  Definitely inappropriate.

“Then,” Umi speaks up, “maybe we could go on a hiatus while we figure ourselves out.”  She caps her marker and sets it on the table with a heavy clack that sounds a lot like she’s exasperated.

“Ridiculous!” Nico retorts.  “After all the work we’ve put in?  We’re just going to go on hiatus and let people think, _oh, they couldn’t cut it after all_?”

“Alright.”  Umi crosses her arms.  “What do you suggest, then?”

“I—”  Nico flounders.  Umi narrows her eyes.  “I’ll think of something.  There has to be an easier way.”

“Would you mind us sticking with our original plan, then?” Umi asks, though her voice sounds like she’s straining to sound civil.  “At least until you figure it out.”

“Fine,” Nico yields.  “On one condition.”

“What is it.”

“We shouldn’t do as many concerts or recordings.”

Umi nods.  “Makes sense,” she says, but this time she seems appeased.  “That sounds feasible, actually.  A good compromise.”

“Exactly,” Nico agrees, “and we shouldn’t drive ourselves to the ground.  I… I just don’t want us to spread ourselves thin, you know?”

“That’s true.”  Umi rubs her neck, her eyes straying to Kotori.  “I suppose we just got carried away with enthusiasm.  It’s just nice to have some good ideas after a period of drought.  I’ll run our plans through with our managers.”  Bowing toward Nico, she finishes, “Thank you for your input.”  How awfully noble of her, you think.  But that’s Umi for you.

“Hah!  Of course.  Oh boy, what would you all do without me?”  Ah, time to zone her out.  “This group needs a voice of reason, and _clearly_ that role falls to me.  Why, even when I was club president back in the good old days of high school—”

“Nicocchi,” Nozomi interrupts.  Thank the gods.

“What,” Nico snaps, her face souring at the interruption.

You watch as Nozomi sidles over to her, deliberately leaning over and resting her chin on top of Nico’s head.  “I’m proud of you.  You’ve grown.”  She sends you a meaningful wink.  Oh.  So that’s where Nozomi is going with this.  You wink back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nico says, ducking out of her chair and turning to glower at Nozomi.  “Go do your cryptic shrine maiden thing somewhere else.”

“Has she really grown?” you ask, picking up on Nozomi’s cue.  You smirk when Nico turns to you with an alarmed expression, and she sends you a warning glare as if to say _oh no don’t you dare_.  You go through with it anyway, shrugging flippantly in her direction.  “Still looks short to me.”

It takes both Nozomi and Eli to restrain Nico from slugging you in the face.

“ _Maki!_ ”

* * *

 So that’s what everyone does: research.  Instead of café dates and karaoke nights, you train.  Prepare.  Eli and Honoka take lessons from dance choreographers, Kotori subscribes to fashion magazines, Rin and Umi organize workout schedules, Hanayo and Nozomi contact owners of performance venues they’ve never been to.

Nico, though.  Nico collects idol merchandise.

Dropping out of the ranks is something you’re all a little wary of, but out of everyone, it’s probably Nico who’s the most on edge about it.  You _know_ Nico, know that she’ll never express that concern outright, because she’s a little weird about pride, but it’s obvious to anyone who cares to look.  Three years of being Nico’s friend has taught you a few things: one—the slower μ’s’ popularity climbs up in the ranking charts, the more anxious she gets; and two—the more anxious she gets, the more outside idol merchandise she racks up.

It's subtle at first: a trinket thrown in this corner, a magazine splayed open on that sofa.  Maybe a figurine or two on the window sills.  Later, it becomes shelves full of limited-time collector’s Blu-ray lives; closets full of costumes; desks full of scholarly articles outlining hypotheses, correlations, and causations of idol publicity and fame.

No one says anything—not until Hanayo opens a cabinet door, fully expecting to find it empty and instead unleashing the Pandora’s Box of idol goods: plastic containers tumble out of the shelves and knock her to the floor, lids pop open and spill out a torrent button pins that drape themselves across her prostrate body.  Then, almost like an afterthought, a life-sized cardboard cutout of A-RISE’s Anju and Erena tips over and crashes into the pile as well.

The cherry on top, you think, wincing in sympathy, before rushing over to pick up the cardboard cutout.

“Somebody help meeee!” Hanayo cries out from underneath the wreckage.

“Nico,” Eli says, voice strained and tight, like she’s trying to keep her temper at bay.  She swipes the cardboard from your hands while Rin and Kotori sweep the button pins off of Hanayo.  “ _Why_ ,” she grinds out, holding the cutout at arm’s length.  “Why do you insist on turning one of our only havens _away_ from idol life into your”—her free arm flails as she tries to find the right words—“your personal hoarder’s den?!  And with merchandise of _other_ idol groups, no less!”

“It's for research.”

“This room is _supposed_ to be one of the few spaces we can just _relax_.  Isn’t that what you were so concerned about before?  If you're doing, uh”—Eli puts her fingers up in quotes—“‘ _research_ ,’ then keep it elsewhere so that people like poor Hanayo don’t get hurt.”

“Eli-chan, it’s alright,” Hanayo speaks up, dusting herself off.  Rin places her hands on Hanayo’s shoulder, helping her regain balance.  “I understand—collecting _is_ her hobby, you know.  I do it, too.” 

“But—”

“Look,” Nico cuts in.  “It's _not_ for my hobbies.  I brought this all in here for a reason—just, let me get to it, alright?”

You can’t help but side eye her as she spreads out the various items she’s collected over the past weeks.  Celebrity gossip magazines, fancomics of two girls from AKB0048, statistical data on the success of subunit albums—they all have a theme, you realize.  It’s an overwhelming variety of evidence on what exactly fans appreciate.  Finally, she takes the cardboard cutout of Anju and Erena from Eli and places it in front, like icing on a cake, dusting off her hands.

Clearing her throat, Nico gestures to the objects on the table, as though she’s giving a presentation.  “Now, does everyone see where I’m getting at?”

Silence.

“Ship pandering,” Nico supplies when no one speaks up.

You have to blink several times in order to process her words.  There’s another good stretch of silence.  “Ship—what?” you ask.  You turn to everyone else, but from their blank stares, they look just as lost as you are—except for Hanayo, who has a fire in her eyes that burns only when it comes to knowledge about idols.

“That’s it!” Hanayo exclaims, running up to clasp Nico’s hands.  “Nico-chan, you’re so great!”

“Of course I am.”  You roll your eyes.

Umi coughs.  “What is ‘ship pandering,’ exactly?”

Striking her ‘Nico Nico Nii’ pose, she begins, “Have no fear, for I, Nico Yazawa, the world’s number one idol, shall tea—”

“Nico,” Eli interrupts, tapping her foot.  “Just get to it, already.”

Nico deflates, pouting at Eli.  “ _Fine_.  Okay, so before I get to that, I want to remind everyone of one thing: as idols, our jobs are to make people smile.  Yes?”

When everyone nods in agreement, Nico continues, “The problem is, I think that as we’ve adapted to becoming professional idols, we’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a fan.  We’ve become so engrossed with our own work, so preoccupied with ratings, that we’ve forgotten about the people who actually _supply_ those ratings.”

You can almost feel the wave of understanding hit the group as everyone’s eyes widen.  Rin nods vigorously.  Honoka slides to the edge of her chair.  Seemingly satisfied with the group’s reactions, Nico pulls out her tablet computer and opens a folder to show everyone.  What comes up on the screen is a set of pictures of girls from an idol group you don’t recognize.

“Back when I was a first year in high school, I used to be in love with this one idol group from South Korea,” Nico admits.  “They’re a nine member group, too—or well, _was._ One of them left the group—but that’s not the point.”  She flips through the pictures as she speaks, pausing on a photo of all nine of them.  You huff.  They’re pretty—you guess.  You turn your head away, but then you see Nozomi giving you a knowing smile. You send her a scowl before ducking your face.  Why is it that she always catches you at the most embarrassing times.

“One of my favorite parts of being a fan was seeing how close they all were,” Nico continues, a smile growing on her face.  “It really warmed my heart—lots and lots—to know how much they loved each other!”  She turns to the rest of the group, and when she gives you all a painfully sincere grin, spanning from ear to ear, your breath catches, but you don’t know why.  You want to tell yourself it’s because you hardly ever see her like this, without a smug smirk on her features.

Setting down her tablet, Nico places her hand over her chest, almost shyly, and says, “That’s what I want the fans to see from us.  I can be an annoyance sometimes and a pain to deal with, but at the end of the day, I know that all of you still love me.  So I’m really grateful for all of you.”

A chorus of ‘awww’s fill the room, and even you can’t help the surge of warmth swelling your chest.

“We do love you, Nico,” Eli says, moving toward her and pulling her into a hug.  Nico returns it full force, and it makes you smile.  Your BiBi girls.  “And I’m sorry I was a bit harsh to you earlier.”

“As am I,” Umi joins in.  “I suppose the stress has taken a toll on all of us, hasn’t it?  Though, that should not be an excuse for poor behavior.”

 Breaking out of the hug, Nico waves them off.  “Nah.  No hard feelings or anything.  Happens to the best of us.”

Making her way to Eli’s side and leaning on her shoulder, Nozomi says, “I think I understand what you’re trying to say now, Nicocchi.”

“Oh yeah?  Then tell ‘em.”

“You want us to do more group activities—events that will allow us to interact more.”

“Yeah—” Nico starts, her voice growing sly, “—kind of.”  She dips her head, and a mischievous smirk replaces the grin on her face.  It’s a complete one-eighty from just a moment before, and it makes you wonder if the whole heartfelt speech she gave was truly genuine or if it was just a setup.

“What, then?” you ask.  “You never did explain what ‘ship pandering’ is.”

“That’s it!  That’s what I want us to do!” she says, hopping over to you and looping an arm around your shoulders.  “See them?”  Nico points toward Nozomi and Eli.  They’re leaning against each other, much like you are with Nico, but you still don’t understand.

“What about them?”

“That’s what the fans call NozoEli,” Nico explains.  “Currently, they’re the second hottest pair in μ’s.  And _that’s_ what fans call a ‘ship.’  Remember how our popularity boosted a whole ton after we released _Garasu no Hanazono_?  That’s because people love their ships!”

“Oh.”  You’ve heard about fans pairing up members in idol groups before, but you weren’t aware that fans had a name for it, much less that it was even a big thing.  “Who’s the first, then?”

“Guess.”  Nico leans closer to you, her eyes wide and eager as though she’s been waiting all day for you to ask.

“Umm—”  You break eye contact with her, turning to the others.  Kotori and Umi are close friends, but they don’t interact too much on stage.  In fact, in _Anemone Heart_ , they hardly even look at each other; if what Nico says is true, then fans would want something more blatant, like NozoEli’s _Garasu no Hanazono._ You rule them out.  Honoka, on the other hand, is more of a floater, darting from one group to the next.  Her fanbase would be more spread.  Then, it has to be—

“Rin and Hanayo?” you ask.  They don’t have a duet yet, but considering how they have to dress up in _wedding clothing_ and walk down the runway as if they’re about to get married, the choreography of _Love Wing Bell_ makes it very much _their_ song.

“It’s _us_!” Nico exclaims, stepping to your side and grabbing your hand.  She lifts both your arms in the air, triumphantly.  “NicoMaki!”

“What?  Really?”  Then, it clicks, but your heart drops as soon as the realization hits you.  “You want us to pretend we’re dating.”  Of course.  She’s always been opportunist like this.  Why should it even surprise you.

Nico lets go of your hand and grimaces at you.  “No!” she says.  “It’s _pandering_ , Maki.  We show everyone how much we love each other—I mean, it won’t be fake or anything, because we really do care about each other—but we focus on certain pairs.  Get it?”

“Rin likes this idea, nya!”  You watch as Rin hugs Hanayo from behind, rubbing their cheeks together.  “Rin is going to show Kayo-chin lots and lots of love!  Then _everybody_ is going to love how much we love each other, nya!”

Hanayo laughs and pushes herself back into Rin’s embrace.  “That does make me really happy, Rin-chan!”

“Me, too!” Honoka butts in, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a tissue.  You squint at her.  Is she tearing up?  “I love RinPana!”

“Oh, we can’t let our underclassmen one-up us, Elichi,” Nozomi teases, leaning close to Eli’s face.  You have faith in Eli.  There’s no way that Eli is going to play along, right—

“Never!”  Eli steps back, placing her hand on the flat on Nozomi’s back and dips her while Nozomi laughs and bats her eyelashes.  “Even NicoMaki cannot top our love!” she declares, placing a rose—where in the _world_ did she get that—in between her teeth.  You flush.  God, help these people.

Honoka claps furiously.  “NozoEli, NozoEli!” she chants.

Kotori swoons.  “Oh, Umi-chan!  Aren’t they all so wonderful?”

‘ _Wonderful_.’  You scoff.  More like a pack of zoo animals.  You clench your fists.  They aren’t supposed to buy into this so easily.  “I—”

“We _did_ see a significant increase in fan interest after you both performed _Zurui yo Magnetic today_ ,” Umi says, unaware that she interrupted you.  You shoot a glare at her, trying to communicate that she should stop agreeing with Nico’s idea, but she doesn’t seem to notice.  You catch Kotori’s despondent look too—probably upset that Umi ignored her in favor of _statistics._ Good going, Umi.  “The answer was in front of us this whole time.  I’m impressed you were able to voice it out so effectively, Nico.”

“Why, of course—”

“This is stupid,” you cut in, distancing yourself from Nico, who looks surprised that you actually disapprove.  You wonder—did she expect otherwise?  “This is a terrible idea.”

Nico opens her mouth, as if she wants to respond, but Nozomi steps in front of her, blocking your view of her affronted expression.  Whatever.  Let her be mad.  “I think it’s worth trying, Maki-chan,” Nozomi says, and you hate how her calm, motherly voice soothes you so easily.  You want to stay angry.  “It sounds like we could really prioritize how we manage our time—and plus, it’ll even be enjoyable!  I think we all can agree we’ve been lacking on quality time together, and this is the perfect opportunity to mend that.  What do you think?”

You shrug, looking at the floor.  There’s logic to what she says, and it’s not like you have a suitable argument ready to counter them, even if it does seem off to you.  But everyone else seems thrilled by the idea.  You’d hate to rain on their parade.

“You’re right,” you say, opting to keep the peace.  This is for the group, you tell yourself.  Your feelings are secondary.  “Let’s do it, then.”

Amidst the cheers of everyone else, catching a glimpse of Nico as she smiles at you, clearly relieved, you think that maybe it won’t be so bad.

* * *

 In the next month, you all come up with a song called _Wild Stars_.  True to the plan, the dance choreography involves showcasing the popular ships, pairing everyone in ‘male’ and ‘female’ opposing roles.

“This song is going to be a hit,” Nico says, stretching her hand out to you.  You’re both alone, practicing the steps to the new song—alone, because you all need to ‘work separately in pairs before rehearsing as a group,’ as Eli had put it.  Yeah, right.  You bet that’s just her excuse for weaseling out of _real_ practice to fool around with Nozomi.

You take her hand, and she leads you across the dance floor, but her grasp holds firm where yours falls limp.  “I guess,” you respond, hoping she picks up on your lackluster enthusiasm.

She does.  Rather than continuing with the dance, Nico leads you to a bench before letting go of your hand.  “You still have a problem with the idea?” she asks, picking up her water bottle.

You shrug, your lips pressing into a slight frown.  What good would it do, admitting your qualms about this whole charade.  It’ll only anger her, and even though a small part of you _wants_ to start a fight, you know that it won’t end well.  Besides, the only one who seems to have an issue with anything is _you_.  Keep the peace, Maki, you tell yourself.  Keep the peace.  “Sorry,” you say instead.  “Let’s start from the beginning again.  First verse.”

You start to stand up, but she pulls you back down by your sleeve, placing a hand on your shoulder, as if to keep you anchored.  “No.  There’s something wrong, and I want you to tell me what it is,” she insists, staring you down.

When you see the passion in her eyes, steady and piercing, you realize something.  Nico capitalizes on opportunities, creates them for herself, because no one else is going to help her.  It’s one of the stark differences between your life and hers: you’ve grown up in luxury, full of open doors where people race to take you in, accommodate you, but Nico’s had nothing but doors slammed in her face.  Dead opportunities, dead dreams.

Maybe you have been a little too judgmental of her.  Nico is an opportunist because she _needs_ to be, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s _using_ you.

Still, you want to confirm it.  You need her to show you.  “Why do you think we’re the most popular pair?” you ask, deflecting her question with your own.  Truthfully, the reason evades you as well, but if Nico has a good answer—one that doesn’t have anything to do catering to audiences—then you’ll know she’s genuine.

“Because out of everyone in our group, we’re probably the most volatile,” she replies, giving you a knowing grin, one that reminds you of all your petty little arguments and the apologies afterward.  You smile back.  Weird how you can look back on those memories fondly now.  “We’re hot and cold.  Push and pull.  It’s _exciting_.”  She slides closer to you, pushing your hair behind your ear.  Even when her hand falls back on your shoulder, your ear still tingles from her touch.

“I know that sometimes, we need to smooth out our differences,” she continues, “We anger each other, get into fights—but _that’s_ what makes us special.  You _challenge_ me, make me _think_ , and even though it makes me mad at times, I have a lot of fun when I’m with you.”  Nico leans forward a bit, and you can see the sheen of lip gloss on her mouth.

“Yeah,” you say, pulling her hand off your shoulder so you can hold it on your lap instead, “I feel the same.”  Has the room always felt this warm?

“Why did you ask?”

You fumble for an answer.  “So I know what to do for the audience,” you blurt out, and you know you’ve made a mistake when Nico pulls away abruptly, standing up and pacing to the stereo.  She jabs the play button, and the beginning notes of _Wild Stars_ blares in the dance studio.  You wince.  Nice going, Maki.

“Super Idol Nico-Nii is nothing without the rest of μ’s!” Nico yells over the music.  “So get your ass over here and practice with me!”  You cast your eyes to the ground.  She’s changing topics, and you aren’t getting a chance to fix whatever mess you’ve caused.  You look back up when she stretches out her hand, again.  You take it, again, but this time your grip is strong, because you want your silent apology to sink into her.

 _μ’s is nothing without you, either_ , you don’t have the courage to say.

* * *

 _Wild Stars_ becomes μ’s’ hottest song.  Your rank flies up fifty spots in the popularity charts.  The promotional video reaches ten million hits within five days.  Everything is great.

* * *

Everything isn’t great.  Ship pandering turns out to be a terrible idea after all.

Later, when your company realizes just how potent your and Nico’s onstage chemistry is, your executives latch onto it like pesky leeches and turn it into a business.  Everyone else is hesitant to agree to the terms, but Nico plays right into it, because _apparently_ she’s an entertainer first and a friend second.

“It’ll be _fine_ , Maki,” she insists.  “It’s not like we’ll be doing anything different.  We’re just doing more of it.  But anyway, come here!”

Nico ushers you to the corner of the lounge room, pressing into your side as she opens a magazine.  You’re surprised when a cardboard cutout doesn’t fall on you both.  Though, ever since the day she revealed her whole collection of idol merchandise, she’s cleaned the room up quite a bit.

“Look at this!” she says.  The page she turns to reveals the picture from your paired Valentine’s Day photoshoot this past year, holding hands.  Underneath is a caption that says—

“Secret romance?” you read aloud, mildly put off.  You wrinkle your nose.  The fact that people can get so fixated on the private lives of celebrities is something you still have to get used to.  Even now, it’s still hard to process that you’re actually amongst the ranks of famous idols, under constant scrutiny.  It’s just weird having people say things about you—even weirder that the things they come up with are _completely_ off the mark.

“Yes!” Nico exclaims, sporting a wide grin.  You almost envy her carefree attitude toward all of this idle gossip.  “Oooh, but did you read the rest of this paragraph?  Look—”  She clears her throat before reading in a dramatic voice, “‘ _NicoMaki is irrefutably the hottest pair of μ’s, but how much of it is actually fanservice?  It’s no mystery that their popularity has skyrocketed ever since they’ve become more affectionate on stage, but is it possible that they could be more?_ ’”  She cackles.  “They’re totally eating it up!  Isn’t this great?”  Nico turns to you expectantly.

“Yeah, it’s definitely… _something_ ,” you respond, looking at your nails instead.  The red nail polish is starting to chip.

“Ugh—”  She pinches your cheek.  You pout at her.  “—why do you have to be such a _bummer_ about all of this,” Nico complains, picking up on your obvious lack of interest.  “Our popularity is the best it’s ever been, and the fans adore us—they adore our close relationships with each other!”  You don’t realize that you’re leaning back on her until she steps away from you, and you have to hop to maintain your balance.

You send her a glare.  “I didn’t sign up to be an idol so I could fuel the flames of pointless gossip,” you counter.  “Honestly, aren’t these articles bordering on scandal?”

Nico shrugs.  “Yeah, so what?  It means we’re doing something right!” she exclaims, giving you a cheeky grin and holding up her ‘Nico Nico Nii’ sign.  “It’s only fitting that the best idols get the juiciest gossip!  I mean, of course”—she leans in awfully close to your face, waggling her eyebrows and giving you a lecherous smile that makes you back away in alarm—“it helps that we make the cutest couple, too!”

‘ _Cutest couple_.’  Ridiculous.  You huff, hoping the weird sensation in your chest doesn’t burst into a full-blown blush.  “It’s _dumb_ ,” you say, pushing her off with both hands and pointedly ignoring her comment.

“Take that back.”  Nico jabs a finger at your chest, glaring at you, but it only makes you roll your eyes.  Maybe if she were less petite, she’d be more intimidating, but to your (quiet) delight and to her (loud) dissatisfaction, you’re more than half a head taller than she is now.

“No,” you stress.  “I’m standing by what I said—what I’ve been saying from the _start_.  It’s dumb.”  You cross your arms and stare her down.

Nico closes in to match your glare, stepping into your personal space, and it’s then that you realize that her face is much too close—again—but in a way that sends butterflies aflutter in your stomach.  It’s a sensation that only ever happens if you’re angry with her.  On rare occasions, it happens when you see her smile, but you don’t really think about that.

“But how is it dumb?” she asks, and you can smell the scent of the strawberries she ate earlier this afternoon.  “We’re not overworking ourselves anymore, we actually have _time_ for each other, we’re having fun—and most importantly, we’re making people happy!  That _is_ an idol’s job.”

“I _know_ ,” you say.  “And I _do_ like making people happy, but I don’t want them to find their amusement through these stupid fake rumors.  I became an idol because I love music, because I want people to be inspired by what we do.  All of this—this sensationalized prattle—it’s a waste of time.  It’s not what I want us to be known for.”

It’s only when you hear the crinkle of paper that you realize she’s crumpled the magazine in her fists.  Her eyes dart back and forth between yours, and it makes you feel a bit exposed, as though she’s trying to dig under your skin and read your mind.  Finally, after what seems like ten long seconds, she steps away.  You let out a relieved sigh, and the muscles you didn’t realize you were tightening loosen up.

“I—I didn’t think about it that way,” Nico says, much more despondently than you expect.  “I was too caught up on us being famous that I—”

“No, it’s fine,” you cut in.  “I’m sorry.  I know how much it means for you to be—”

“It’s _not_ fine,” she insists.  “Maki, you realize that it’s written in our contracts that we have to, y’know, ship pander, right?”  Nico tosses the magazine in the recycling bin before taking your hands into hers.  Her fingers are soft, unlike yours, which are studded with the rough callouses of piano playing.  For all her abrasive nature, she can be surprisingly gentle sometimes.

It’s rare to see this side of her.  You’re used her more aggressive, unbridled displays of affection, those that involve hearty slaps on the back, or tackle hugs that catch you off balance—the sort of roughhousing that you expect she does with her siblings.  After a quiet moment of indulging in her warmth, you respond quietly, “Yeah, I know.”

Nico brushes her thumb against your palm.  It’s what she does whenever she feels apologetic about something, whenever she doesn’t want to voice it out.  It’s okay, though.  You understand her every time, but it makes your heart jump and your throat feel dry to know this is something she only does with you.  You take the feeling in stride.  It’s dangerous to think too much into it.

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?  When I first suggested this?  When I asked you what was wrong before?”

There are many ways you can answer her.  You _could_ be honest and tell her everything you’ve mused on.  You _know_ Nico.  You know that she doesn’t come from the best of financial situations and that, for her, this is the best place she _can_ be; and, considering life has rebuffed her every other opportunity to pursue her idol career, this is the best place she ever thought she _could_ be.  Nico knows better than anyone else not to look the gift horse in the mouth.  She’s a smart girl—smarter than people give her credit for.  She does what any other logical person in her shoes would do: milk all the pandering for what it’s worth.

You don’t blame her.  Not really.  It’s not like you don’t play along, too.  You’ve long convinced yourself it’s for the sake of the group, because it’s what a good friend would do—and you may not be the best friend by any means, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try.

“Maki?” she prompts.

Your cheeks burn from the thought of admitting all of that to her, though, so instead you answer, evasively, “I didn’t really understand how I felt back then.  I didn’t know how to put my frustration into words.”  It’s not exactly a lie.  “But regardless of what I said earlier, we have no choice butto go through with this.  I’ll try my best, even if I think it’s dumb.”

“Yeah.  For the fans, right?”

You look to the side.  “Um—yes.  Something like that.”

Nico stares at you for a moment before squeezing your hand and intertwining your fingers, and from the way the tips of your ears burn, you’re certain that your entire face is beet red.  “I’m sorry.  I’ve been selfish all this time, and—”

“It’s _fine_.”  You pull her into a hug, wrapping your arms around her back, praying that she can’t catch sight of how flustered you are.  You hardly ever initiate hugs, but you’d rather act weird than deal with the mortification later if she notices.

Her cheek brushes against your shoulder.  “You’re warm,” Nico says into the crook of your neck, and you’re not sure if the anxious jitters in your chest are from the way her hands rest on your hips or from the nervousness of her seeing of your increasingly reddening face.  “Kind of… _too_ warm, actually.”  You can almost see her eyes narrowing suspiciously.  Oh no.

When Nico pushes away from you, you don’t stop her, for whatever reason.  Her eyes roam across your features, and yours fixate themselves on the opposite side of the room.  From your peripheral vision, she’s smirking in that aggravatingly smug way—just like you thought she would.  It makes you want to just sink into the ground and disappear.

You do the next best thing and retract your hands from her, stepping away to retreat from her scrutiny.  She follows you pace for pace, right until your back hits the wall with a small thud.

Okay.  Maybe that wasn’t the best move.

“You’re blushing,” Nico says in a sing-song, as though it isn’t obvious.  When you make eye contact with her again, though, you realize that she’s staring at you like how she sometimes stares at you on stage, with the type of look that says she’s never seen anyone more beautiful.  Except, you’re not on stage.  There are no cameras to judge you.  This is real.

“Yeah.”  Your lips are unbearably dry, and you lick them on reflex.  She watches your tongue slide across your lips.  The air between you feels charged, precarious—in a way that makes you think that sparks and explosions are going to trigger the moment either of you make a move.

Her breath brushes against your face (when did you lean down?), and you vaguely acknowledge that her hands are on your shoulders, as if she’s about to pull you toward her.  She’s still smirking as she tilts her head to the side.  You wonder what she’s thinking now, if she feels as strange and tense as you do.

It’s only when Nico leans in that your heart stops.  “No,” you manage to say, pushing her back.  “Stop joking around already.”

Nico turns around and laughs, but something sounds off about it.  “Geeeez, Maki.  You’re so sensitive.”  She adjusts her collar, and fiddles with the ends of her sleeves.  “Anyway, thanks for the talk and everything.  And, y’know.  Whatever.  See ya.”

Your heartbeat drowns out the sound of her fading footsteps.

* * *

Something changes.

* * *

Outside of public eye, Nico doesn’t touch you.  Not anymore.

There’s no reason she should, really.  Not that you _want_ her to—no way—but it’s just odd.

When the cameras are on you, Nico becomes someone different—someone not so much an idol as she is a set of tools, lined methodically to ensure the greatest efficiency.  It’s different from before.  More systematic.  Colder.

You’ve learned her modus operandi forwards and back by now, and even though she never tries the same thing twice, the framework remains unchanged.  There’s the onstage teasing, like the times she breaks out of the dance choreography to run a finger along your exposed collarbone; the smoldering looks she throws you across stage, excruciatingly blatant as her gaze sweeps your skin (‘eyesex,’ as the fans on forums call it); the cheek kisses that feel more calculated than sincere.

It leaves you feeling hollow and used, like a mistreated instrument, plucked until the strings thin and tear.  When you’re all out of public view, her smile drops as fast as an anchor before she remembers herself and fixes it, as though smiles are supposed to be _fixed_.  Then, predictably, she leaves the premises before you can question her, and you wonder how she really feels about all of this, or if she’s even thought to ask you about it.

You remember a time when her smiles didn’t remind you so much of plastic mannequins.

You miss that about her.

Maybe that’s what bothers you—just how _fake_ everything is.  It’s not that you _want_ it to be real (the contracts dictate that dating is forbidden anyway), but it just feels wrong indulging some fantasy that the fans wholeheartedly endorse while your company profits off of it.  Maybe it just feels cheap, selling yourself out like that.

Maybe you just want your friend back.

* * *

 The thing that bothers you the most isn’t the ship pandering itself, you realize; it’s what happens _after_.

Which is to say— _nothing_ happens.  Nothing happens, and that’s the worst part.  After two hours of nonstop buildup of onstage ‘Unresolved Sexual Tension’—the coy glances, the playful touches, the flirtatious banter—Nico just changes as quickly as possible out of her idol outfit and leaves the premises to do god knows what.

There is no debriefing.  No explanation of the way her thumb rubs slow circles against your palm like how she used to, even though the audience can’t see it; or of the way she hugs you from behind, hands clasped tight around your belly like she’s afraid of letting you go; or how you sometimes catch her looking at you like there are unsaid apologies written in her eyes.  There’s nothing.  You know she’s trying to tell you something, that she’s trying to apologize, but it unnerves you to realize that you can’t decipher her body language.  Maybe in the past, it’d be enough, but not now.  Not anymore.  You need _words_.

Nico is like a bunny nowadays—not in the sense that she’s _cute_ (gosh, no—why would you even _think_ that)—but more so in that she is flighty and evasive, flitting in and out of group activities but only sticking around when she’s needed.  It’s infuriating, confusing.  You hate that she isn’t talking to you about it—about _anything_.  You don’t understand what anything means, and she isn’t even giving you the light of day to _say_ anything.

She’s probably angry at you, you realize.  The day you pushed her away—that’s the day that she closed herself off.  It’s probably your fault.  She’s probably been waiting for _you_ to say something.

The day you build up your resolve to approach her, with a bowl of fresh and plump strawberries in hand because you know that’s her favorite fruit, she’s already packed her things, darted right past you, and left the room.  You ignore the apprehensive gazes of the rest of the group members.

You don’t care, you decide.  You don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t _care_.

A week later, you find the strawberries rotting in the back in the fridge.

* * *

The week before the subunit concert, your manager calls you into her office.

“Please, take a seat, Maki,” she says, gesturing to the desk chair in front of you, and despite how on edge you are, her calm smile puts you at ease.  You’re probably not in trouble like you thought you were.

Your manager’s name is Kyouko Sasahara.  She’s a retired idol now, about seven years older than you, and you’re blessed to have someone so experienced yet kind serve as your mentor.  She’s the bridge between your group and your executives, a representative of sorts, but she’s the trustworthy sort of person you’d go to for advice about anything.

“How are you doing?” she asks once you settle down, but the way her voice sounds makes it feel like a loaded question.  You feel nervous again, like you’ve already done something wrong.

“I’m fine.  Thank you.”  Not wanting to waste time with formalities, you cut straight to the chase.  “Is there a reason you called me in?”

“Actually, yes.”  She swivels on her chair and turns on the television in the corner of the room.  “I’ve been noticing a little something lately,” Kyouko says, and you realize that what’s playing on the screen is yesterday’s performance.  You watch how Nico dances around you, clearly attempting to incite _some_ sort of reaction, but all you do is evade and rebuff.  It’s strange seeing it happen in a detached, third point of view, but it’s all you need to figure out what this meeting is really about.

“Oh,” you say, gripping the armchair.

“I’m not angry,” she quickly responds, pressing the power button on the remote.  The television flickers out.  “I just wanted to know—and please, be honest—does this situation make you uncomfortable?”

Uncomfortable.  You wonder what part of it _doesn’t_ make you uncomfortable.  “It’s not like I have a choice.”

Kyouko crosses her legs, staring at an old frame picture, a memoir of her last concert as an idol, holding hands with her two other group members.  “You’re right,” she says, though it hurts to have her confirm it.  “Being an idol isn’t just about the singing and dancing.  It’s not just about pleasing the fans.  But in reality, a lot of it seems to be about kissing the asses of your employers.”  She has a distant look in her eyes, as though she’s traveled back into another time, undoubtedly reminiscing about her glory days.

“Something like that,” you agree.  Being an idol _is_ a business, you suppose.  As fresh meat, you had no idea what you signed into—none of you did—and it’s still a harsh reality to experience firsthand that becoming an idol has less to do with music than it does with being an investment, a tool crafted to be lucrative as possible for the company that made your stardom possible in the first place.

“The thing is,” Kyouko continues, “at least for this particular development in marketing strategies—‘ship pandering,’ or whatever you guys call it—I don’t think it was meant to be _harmful_ in any way.  It’s a mutually beneficial maneuver.  Bringing members together improves group relationships and promotes group cohesion—and once the fans see how supportive and loving everyone is of each other, that’ll boost the fan base.  Fans _love_ that stuff.  Trust me.”

You do trust her.  Even before this conversation, Nico made sure to nail that information into your brain.

“And it’s worked!” she says.  “For the most part, at least.  Your other members are doing well, I believe?”

The others.  Guilt settles in your stomach like a heavy stone—when was the last time you spared them a thought?  “I think so,” you say, hoping she doesn’t pick up on your unease.

If Kyouko notices, she doesn’t comment.  “Exactly.  But the mystery here is why you and Nico have been growing distant.”

You stiffen and hold your breath.  “What makes you think it’s because of the ship pandering?”

“I don’t know for certain, but from what I’ve observed, your group members are getting along fantastically on stage”—she steeples her fingers—“except for you and Nico.  I was hoping you could tell me if I was right.  _Is_ there a problem between you two?”

You have a feeling she already knows the answer.  What’s the harm in confirming it for her.  “Yeah,” you admit, but then the rest of your frustrations come out like a flood breaching a dam.  “There’s _something_ wrong, but all she does is tease me onstage, and I hate it.  That’s why I haven’t been as receptive—because she doesn’t _talk_ to me.”  Your voice grows quiet.  “I don’t know what to do.  The only time she acknowledges me is if we’re on stage.”

“Perfect.  Then bring the fight to her.”

You blink.  “What?”

“You said that she only acknowledges you on stage, right?  So use that to your advantage.  I think she’ll be pleasantly caught off guard, assuming she’s not expecting you to… turn up the heat.”  She throws you a wink, and you can’t help but blush at what she’s saying.

‘Turn up the heat.’  What does that even mean.  You don’t want to sound ignorant, though, so you try and deflect the topic of conversation.  “You sound like you’ve had to deal with something similar in the past.”

Kyouko laughs.  “Oh, who knows.”  So much for that, you think, knowing she isn’t going to elaborate.

“I, um—” you splutter, trying to think of anything to derail the discussion, but when she looks at you expectantly with a knowing smirk, you lose your steam.  “Never mind!”

She narrows her eyes at you, and you turn to face a random spot on the wall, as if that will ease your discomfort of her scrutiny.  “Wait—do you not know what I mean by ‘turn up the heat?’”

You sink into the seat, horrified that she can read you so easily.  “Uhh… um.  Maybe.”  You rub your hands together, suddenly feeling a bit clammy.  “Well—Nico-chan was the one who taught me all about fanservice techniques or whatever, but now that she’s not talking to me—”

“Sex appeal,” your manager explains, cutting you off.  “You have to raise your sex appeal.”

Your face burns.  “I know what sex appeal is,” you insist.  Gosh, this is embarrassing.  You feel like a naïve child.  Maybe this really isn’t a good idea.

“Of course,” she says.  “But considering she’s being aloof like you say, you have to _provoke_ her.”

You forget how cunning your manager can be sometimes.  It almost feels improper, like a violation of conduct that she’s even giving you this sort of advice, but you can’t say you don’t appreciate it.

Biting down on your pride, you force yourself to confess, “I don’t know how to.”

You’re surprised when she coughs, but it’s clear from the crinkles near her eyes that she’s trying to cover up her amusement.  Gosh, how embarrassing.

“Then I encourage you to do some research, kiddo.  Gotta learn one of these days.”  Kyouko leans over the desk and bops you on the forehead.  “Dismissed.”

* * *

Sex appeal, huh.  What is sex appeal even, you wonder, staring at the blank search box on the web browser.  It’s a term you hear thrown around a lot, in forums and even amongst your seniors in the idol company, but it’s never been something you’ve been inclined to research on your own.  It’s not that you’re a _prude_ , like Nico used to say you are, but you’ve just never been interested until now.

You gulp.  Before you chicken out and decide that this is all stupid, you force your fingers to move across your keyboard, typing in ‘how to increase sex appeal.’

What comes up is a definition that you read aloud: “Sex appeal is an individual’s ability to attract the sexual or”—you choke on the next word—“ _erotic_ interest of another person.”  It’s not until you see your cursor jittering on your screen that you realize your hand is shaking.  _This_ is what your manager had in mind?  _Erotic interest._ Your manager wants you to arouse the _erotic interest_ of _Nico_.  Nico.  Nico’s _erotic interest_.

“Oh my god.  _Oh my god_.”  You slam your laptop cover down.  This is _shameful_.  Absolutely shameful.  “Oh my god.”

You can almost see Nico’s smug face, cackling through the delicious vindication that you’re a prude after all.  It irritates you, and it’s the competitive nature you have against her that makes you lift up your laptop cover and continue your research.  Imagination or not, you’re not going to let her one-up you.

How would this even work, though, you wonder.  Can sex appeal even work on a strictly platonic friendship of three years?

But—who are you kidding.  Has it really been platonic? Nico almost _kissed_ you (this is the first time you even _admit_ to yourself that that’s what it was), and it makes your head throb to think that there really _is_ something more.

Though, looking back on the past few months, lots of things make sense—the way your eyes mysteriously stray to her, the way her touches make butterflies flutter in your stomach, the way your chest burned (with jealousy—it was definitely jealousy) when she paid special attention to Kotori.  You’ve always attributed it to something else, like maybe she makes you feel all these weird things because she makes you feel so _much_ —a turbulent barrage of emotions that range from infuriation to confusion to happiness.

You like her.

You like her, you realize, and not in the ‘gal pals’ way, either—but in a take-her-on-dates, kiss-her-full-on-the-lips, make-sweet-love-to-her sort of way.  It’s always been there, you think, lingering in the back of your mind, but until recently, there’d never been a reason for it to come to the forefront.

Oh no.

Adrenaline courses through your veins.  Your palms grow sweaty.  This is ridiculous.  Unfair.  Illegal.  You’re not sure Nico even _deserves_ your affections, considering all she’s done, but you can’t deny the sudden eruption of emotions piercing your chest.  You like her, and you hate that you’ve realized it at the _worst_ time, when she’s closed off to the entire world.

Sex appeal, you remember, staring at your screen.  You have to get through to her using sex appeal.

As oblivious you can be, you’re not a _complete_ idiot.  You and Nico wouldn’t have any onstage chemistry if she wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to you, right?  You want to believe that your feelings aren’t one-sided.  You need to let her know, and you need to know her feelings, too.

You stomp down your shame.  You research.  You take notes, practice in the mirror.  Though, somehow, articles about sensuality and attraction become articles about sex itself, and it’s not until you come across an image of a girl licking another girl _down there_ that you abruptly slam your laptop cover down again.

That’s the first time you learn about cunnilingus.  It’s also the first time a distinct sensation burns right in your loins, a feeling that sparks anew every time you think about that picture.

Later that night, when you lie in bed, the image invades your mind again, and you can’t help but wonder how it must feel like, to have another person stroke a tongue across your labia.  You’ve never even masturbated before—you don’t even know what sexual pleasure _feels_ like—but you always hear about how _good_ it is.

When you reach down below the waistband of your underwear, rubbing your clit for the first time, you close your eyes and hate yourself for imagining a girl with black hair and piercing red eyes licking the sweet, sweet spot between your legs.

* * *

On the day of the subunit concert, Honoka pulls you aside for a cup of coffee at a breakfast café and asks you what’s been happening between you two lately.  And that’s exactly _it_ —

“ _Nothing_ has been happening,” you tell her, trying not to let the frustration creep up into your voice as you blow into your mug.  Ever since your last encounter with Nico, everything’s just been _weird_.

From the suspicious squint that Honoka gives you (she definitely learned that from Umi), you know she doesn’t buy it.  Maybe when you all were younger, she would have, but she’s really matured into a respectable and considerate leader these past few years.  It makes you feel proud to see how much she’s grown, but in this current situation, you wish that maybe she would be less nosy, less intent on helping everyone solve their problems.  It’s nice that you two finally get time to talk, but if you’d known that _this_ was what she wanted to talk about, you would’ve refused.

Honoka slams her hand on the table before leaning over to punch you on the shoulder.  “Aw, shucks, Maki-chan!  You really expect me to believe that?”

You give a small grunt and swat away her hand.  “I dunno.”

Honoka settles back down on her chair, swirling her cup of coffee.  “You know, Maki-chan,” she says, and she sounds a little more somber than usual, which is a bit disconcerting considering how energetic she normally is.

“Yes, Honoka?” you ask, hesitant.  You bring your mug to your lips to sip at the coffee, but it ends up burning the tip of your tongue and being more bitter than you expect.  You force yourself not to react, though, to act like you aren’t hurt, and it’s with a funny sort of irony that you realize you’ve been doing that quite often.

“Nico-chan has been… acting a bit off recently, hasn’t she?”

You agree, but you want to know what Honoka thinks about it, so you ask, “How so?”

“Well… I would’ve thought that finally becoming professional idols would make her feel happy!  She used to tell me about everything she’d do once we all became famous.”  Honoka breaks into a smile as she clasps her hands together.  It’s hard not to smile with her.  “Nico-chan has so many ambitions, and we really wouldn’t be where we are without her dedication and persistence.”

You hum in agreement, though you know Honoka isn’t done.  “But…?” you prompt.

Honoka sets her elbow on the table and rests her head against her hand, her smile dropping as she explains, “I think the idol industry has changed her.  I mean—it’s changed everyone!  But I feel like she’s growing distant from us.”  Then, while looking pointedly at you, she continues, “Though, as her best friend, I think you know that better than any of us.”

“Best friend,” you echo, letting out a short, harsh laugh.  “I’m not even sure if that’s accurate anymore—” Your eyebrows shoot up.  Whoa.  Backtrack, backtrack, _backtrack_.  “— _not_ that I ever thought of myself as her best friend or anything!”  You lift the mug back up to your face, as if you can pretend the heat on your cheeks is because of the steam of your coffee.  Clearing your throat, you attempt to save face.  “I think Nozomi’s more accurately her best friend than I am, anyway.”

Honoka smiles at you with that irritatingly ditzy smile, but the most annoying part of it is that you’re not even certain if she’s as oblivious as she acts anymore.  Back in high school, sure—but now?  Sometimes you feel like she even uses that to her advantage.

“Maki-chan, we’ve all been friends for three years.  Yeesh, when are you going to stop being such a _baby_ about admitting you care about people?  Life is short!”  She punches you on the shoulder again.

You roll your eyes, taking another sip of your drink.  It’s cooler now, but your tongue still burns.  “I _do_ care,” you blurt out, setting your mug down with more force than you intend.  The coffee spills over, but you work fast to clean it with a napkin.  “I do care,” you repeat, hating that it comes out so easily now, ever since you’ve admitted it to yourself.  “Probably _too_ much, considering how much she _doesn’t_.”  You rip a hole in the napkin as you scrub at the stain.

“Of course Nico-chan cares!”  Honoka slams both hands on the table and sits up abruptly.  “Don’t be silly.”

You wince from the sudden outburst.  “I—”

“Sorry,” she says, sitting back down.  Honoka scratches her temple, avoiding eye contact with you.  “Kinda lost myself there.  I guess I just got sort of upset hearing that from you, because I know that you two are really close.  I just think that, if anyone can get through to her, it’d be you.”

Your heart drops.  You’ve been so fixated on yourself that you neglected to think about how Nico’s behavior is affecting the rest of the group.  “Have you guys… talked to her?” you ask, almost afraid of the answer.

“I have,” Honoka admits.  “I know Rin-chan has.”

“And?”

“Nico-chan is really weird!  Y’know, I didn’t notice before, but Kotori-chan pointed this out to me a while ago, about how Nico-chan has this _thing_ where she acts really energetic and confident, but it’s all just a cover up for when she’s feeling hurt.  When she’s _actually_ in a good mood, she acts irritable.”

You laugh.  It almost feels like an out-of-body experience, hearing other people say things about Nico that you’ve already known for years.  “Yeah, I know.” 

“Anyway, I asked her how she was doing the other day, but then she just brushed me off, said she was doing great, and skipped away.”

“Typical.”  It’s strange.  It hurts to think that Nico is ignoring everyone, but it’s almost a relief to know that even if you did try to reach out to her, she’d probably shirk away from your attempts, too.  At least you’re not the only one.

Honoka reaches over to grab your shoulders and shakes you.  “It’s saaad, Maki-chan!  I’ve been so worried about her!  What if her family’s having problems?  What if she’s feeling down?  We just don’t know!”

You bite your lip.  Another reminder that you’ve been too self-absorbed.  You’ve been spending so much time wondering if _you_ were in the wrong that you’ve never considered if Nico had other issues on her plate.

You’re not quite sure how to respond, but thankfully Honoka’s phone starts ringing and saves you the trouble of coming up with a reply.  “Heeeeellooo!” Honoka answers.  Her eyes widen.  “Oh!  Umi-chan!  What’s up—OH.  Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!  I’ll be there right away—I’m like ten minutes from—you don’t have to _yell_.  BYE!”

Holding the phone at arm’s length, Honoka slams the end call button repeatedly, and even though her call isn’t on speaker, you can still hear Umi’s enraged voice on the other end.  “So sorry to cut our talk short!  I totally forgot about a last minute Printemps rehearsal!  Remember what we talked about, alright?!”  She packs her things and dashes out of the door.

The door bursts open as she pokes her head back in.  “Oh, and good luck with the BiBi performance later tonight if I don’t see you there!  Catch you later!”  The door slams shut again.  Other customers stare.  The baristas stare.

It’s not until Honoka is really, truly gone that you remember she never set aside money for her part of the bill.

* * *

“Nice hairband,” Eli compliments, patting the top of your head and adjusting the hair accessory before putting a hand on your shoulder.  “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” you say, staring at her hand.  Eli hardly ever initiates contact with you like this unless she’s concerned.  Honestly, what is it with people and checking up on you nowadays.  You’re not a baby.

True to your suspicions, she asks, “How are you holding up?”

Lily White’s last song, _Kimi no Kuse ni_ , starts playing _._ You and Eli watch them from backstage.  Printemps has already left to go to an interview.  Nico is—somewhere.  She shows up eventually, albeit at the last possible moment.

“Fine,” you tell her, and for the first time in a while, you mean it.  “I have a plan.  When are we performing _Cutie Panther_ , again?”

She raises an eyebrow at you.  “Third in our set list.  Why?”

“Just going to warn you that I’m turning up the heat,” you say, deadpan, hoping that you don’t have to explain further.

Eli’s eyes widen.  Her jaw drops.  “ _Oh_.”  Good.  She gets it.  “I wish you luck, then.”  Eli pats you on the back.  “Knock her dead, Maki!”

“Knock what now?” Nico butts in.  You swivel to look at her.  She’s staring at your hairband, you realize, smugly, but your conceit is short-lived when you’re actually staring right back.  She’s wearing her hair down again, but it’s still an odd sight.  You’re so accustomed to seeing her in twin tails, but for the past month, she’s been trying new hairstyles.  You remember her saying something in the past about how she’s ready to, in her own words, ‘drop her cutesy image and be hot.’

It’s not until recently that she’s tried, and considering the tingles below the pit of your stomach, you hate to admit that it _works_.  You flush, trying not to stare at her.  Why did Kotori make the _Cutie Panther_ outfits so revealing.

“Nothing, Nico!” Eli answers.  “You ready?”

“Ha!  Nico Yazawa is always ready!” she exclaims.

Oh no, you think.  Oh no she isn’t.

* * *

You’re panting by the time you finish the second song, _Diamond Princess no Yuutsu_.  It’s not a particularly difficult piece to perform—minimal dancing, slow tempo—but it’s the _anticipation_ of what you’re about to do.  You’ve spent a whole week researching about sex appeal, but the thought of actually going through with anything makes you shake and sweat.

Though when the bass drops for _Cutie Panther_ , you crush your reservations under your heels and settle into position.  There is no room to hesitate.

“ _I’m gonna get you!_ ”

She’s staring at you, again.  You knew she would.  It’s one of the things you’re certain she’d do.

When your solo starts, you pay attention to when her eyes stray.  It happens when you dip your legs, sway your hips—there’s a pattern to this, and you realize that her attention is always focused around your waist.

The next time you catch her staring at your midriff, during another hip thrust in the dance choreography, you capitalize on the opening.  Bingo.  Turning her to give better view, you squash down your mortification and run your hand along your abs, slowly, agonizingly, making sure to keep your eyes on her face the whole time, smirking when she goes slack-jawed and wide-eyed, her expression becoming increasingly scandalized and flustered.

“ _My prey is you!_ ”

The audience explodes in squeals and cheers.  Fans drown out the stadium with red and pink glow sticks.  Eli’s voice cracks when she realizes what’s going on.  You don’t even have to turn around to know that the camera has panned onto the mischief you’ve caused.  It’s a guilty sort of satisfaction.

Topping off your act with a cheeky wink and relishing in the deep pink hue in your cheeks that you know isn’t due to the heat onstage, you feel relieved that maybe Nico _does_ feel the same sort of frustration that you do—the type of frustration that makes your heart constrict against your ribcage.

* * *

In the dressing room after the concert is over, you feel Nico’s eyes burning holes into your back as you unbutton your vest.  For once, she hasn’t escaped.  For once, she’s staying to talk.

It’s not until Eli leaves the room that she makes her move.

“What the hell was that, Maki?” Nico hisses, and before you can register what’s going on, she’s already grabbed you by the arm, turned you around, and pushed you against the wall.  Nico must’ve been waiting for the moment to ambush you.

“I was just going with the flow,” you answer, trying to remain cool, but it’s a struggle, because your vest is _wide open_ and your bra is painfully, obviously _exposed._ Scrambling to regain your dignity, you try to wriggle out of her grasp, but her grip is stronger than you expect.  When she doesn’t budge, you stop struggling, opting to look to the side.

“How in the world is that _going with the flow_?” she demands, tightening her grasp.  You wince.  It’s the first time she’s touched you in _ages_ , but it’s rough, brusque—very unlike what it used to be.  The skin on your wrists burns anyway, as though it’s trying to soak in as much of her fury as possible, clinging onto whatever it can.

“I can’t _always_ let you one-up me.  The fans will think it’s one-sided, won’t they?  A little creativity with breaking the scripts adds flavor to a performance.”

Her eyebrows furrow.  Her grip loosens.  “You’re saying it’s not one-sided,” Nico says, and you’re not sure if she’s referring to the stage acts anymore or if she’s talking about something else entirely.

You want to test her.  “What if it isn’t,” you whisper, voice raspy.

Her gaze drops, and when her face goes bright red, you realize she’s caught on to the fact that your bra is showing.  It sends a rush of blood to your groin.  Your heart races.

Nico looks back up at you, staring at your lips.  They feel dry.  You wet them with your tongue.  When you lean in, you close your eyes. 

“No, Maki,” Nico says, pushing herself off you, and it’s like you’ve slapped in the face.  “It’s too late.”

Before you can recover your wits, she’s gone again.

* * *

The results of the popularity charts and polls after the BiBi concert are staggering.  NicoMaki has reached the front pages of numerous reputable news sites, and the rankings reveal μ’s to be right smack in the middle of this year’s top ten hottest idol groups.  It’s chilling, knowing how much of a disconnect there is between your stage presence and reality.  The fans believe that you’re inseparable, unbreakable, but the truth is, you’ve never felt more distant from her.

It _does_ bother you, you admit—just how _fake_ everything is.  It’s not that even the fact that you _want_ it to be real (screw contracts; Nozomi and Eli don’t listen to them anyway), but it’s just _different_ for everyone else.  It’s not like the others don’t have their fair share of ship pandering duties, but it’s not like it’s gotten in the way of their friendships.  And ever since the talk with your manager, you’ve become irritatingly hyperaware of how the others are doing.

Nozomi and Eli have become even _more_ touchy-feely with each other—if that’s even possible.  They’re attached to the hip—not like they weren’t before—but you feel like something’s changed.  It’s in the subtle changes of their body language: the way Eli squeezes Nozomi’s shoulder when no one else realizes she needs it, the way they whisper secrets to each other, as though all the comfort they need is buried within the safety of their ears.  They’re disgustingly infatuated.  It sort of makes you want to vomit.

Even Umi is loosening up, day by day.  It’s the most obvious with her, because you know Umi as an unbending force of nature, agonizingly strict on laws and formalities, and to see her actually look _relaxed_ for once is almost disconcerting, in a strange way.  The discomfort gnaws at you the most whenever you watch Kotori and Umi casually lace hands— _Umi_ , of all people, being comfortable with public displays of affection—and you hope to the gods above that whatever you’re feeling isn’t envy.  Gross.

If it is, then—well.  You don’t really want to think about the implications.

Though—maybe that’s it, you realize.  Maybe you are a little envious.  You’re envious that it’s different for everyone else, because everyone else’s relationships have improved in one way or another.  But all you’re left with in the wake of this corporate ship pandering maneuver is the reality that Nico is drifting away from you, that she’s being swept away by the waves of opportunist business incentives.  Any sort of physical contact with you is reserved for the cameras.

She doesn’t touch you anymore—not like she used to, with her playful shoulder bumps as you walk side by side, her spontaneous hugs, her gentle hand holding when she wants to comfort you.

The way you both act onstage is overly sensual now, but in a way that you know is awfully cheesy and much too premeditated.  The fans may not see it, but you can _feel_ it.  Her touches are cold and tight, like wrenches made out of steel.  She strikes cold where your feelings run hot.  It send shivers down your spine, not because you feel butterflies but because she’s frigid now—emotionally distant—and it kills you to know that she wasn’t always like this.

She doesn’t touch you anymore—not like she used to—and at this point, you don’t expect her to.

But when you see Rin and Hanayo smiling so _genuinely_ during the live performance of _Love Wing Bell_ , staring into each other’s eyes with the type of love that isn’t engineered out of obligation, your heart clenches and you think that maybe—just _maybe_ —you can admit that you miss it, that you miss _her_.  Just a little bit.

(A lot.)

* * *

“You should talk to her, Maki-chan.”

There’s something calming about Nozomi’s voice, like she has all the wisdom of old age but the heart of a girl who wants to make the best out of everything.  It’s comforting at the worst of times—but if there’s one thing that you really hate, it’s people babying you, and that’s exactly what Nozomi is doing.

You give a long shrug before setting down the fallboard of your piano, wondering how to respond, because you know Nozomi isn’t going to let you slide.  This isn’t what you wanted to think about today, let alone talk about with anyone else.  Nico has already made it clear she’s not open to conversation.  Ultimately, you settle for the thing you’ve been telling yourself the past few months: “There’s nothing really to say.”

Before you can stop yourself, your fingers are already twirling the locks of your hair.  It’s a nervous habit sometimes—one that everyone and their mom knows about, thanks to your fame as an idol and the consequent extensive photographic evidence.  You don’t even have to look at Nozomi’s face to know that she’s onto you.

“You could start with a ‘hello.’  Or just a simple greeting,” she suggests, lightly.  You can’t help sigh, exasperated.  A ‘hello.’  Please.  As if Nico is even around anyone long enough.

“What’s the point,” you retort, your voice sounding a little more bitter than you’d like.  “She’s self-absorbed, and she goes out of her way to avoid me.  I know when I’m not wanted.”  The words come out before you can even process them; you never intended to talk about Nico at all, but you’re also tired of holding in your hurt.  Nozomi has the type of motherly charm that makes you want to spill everything.  It makes you feel vulnerable, but then again, if there’s anyone to be vulnerable with, it’d be with her.  “I wouldn’t want to be her friend either if all she cares about is spicing up our onstage appeal.”

Nozomi sits down on the piano bench next to you, and suddenly the space around you feels very cramped.  “I know what you tried to pull the other day,” she says, her tone of voice reminding you a lot of an understanding but disappointed parent.  You bow your head to the side.  “And I know that it probably backfired.  So that’s why you need to—”

“The bottom line is,” you cut in, sliding to the edge of the bench both to give her space and to distance yourself, “I’m not going to waste my energy on someone who has no regard for my feelings.”  This conversation is stupid.  Nozomi is stupid.  Your fingers itch to play piano, to compose something— _anything_.  Anything to get your mind off of stupid Nico Yazawa.

“Who says she doesn’t?” Nozomi asks, and her hand is on your shoulder now, giving you a comforting squeeze.  You have to physically restrain yourself from shaking her off, because you know she always has good intentions and doesn’t deserve to be a victim of your temper tantrums.  Still, what a ridiculous question.

“It’s obvious,” you say, and you flip the fallboard back up to dabble with a melody you’ve been working on, because it’s the type of therapeutic distraction you need at this moment.  “The moment our company made ship pandering a necessity, Nico’s been _different_. We both go onstage, she does her fanservicey ass-shaking thing and I’m supposed to stare and look like I’m enjoying it”—never mind that you _do_ enjoy it, but Nozomi doesn’t need to know that—“and later we retire back in our dorms without saying a _word_ to each other—like nothing’s wrong.  What am I supposed to think?”

In the midst of your rant, you hit a wrong note by accident—a jarring note that’s a semitone too high—and it makes you slam the fallboard back down in frustration.  “It’s not like _I_ started it,” you continue, hating that you sound like a whiny child now, and even from your peripheral vision, you can tell that Nozomi is staring at you with something that looks a little too much like pity.

Nozomi hums for a bit, waiting a moment for you to cool down before responding.  “I think I understand how you feel.”

“What do you mean?”

“Elichi used to be much the same way, you know,” she says, and the way Nozomi speaks Eli’s name makes you _feel_ the years of mutual respect and adoration between the two.  It’s heartwarming, but somehow that makes you feel a little sad.  You can’t place why.

“She’s not very open about her feelings,” Nozomi continues, “and whenever she seems upset, she’d isolate herself even more.  It’s not that she means to distance herself from people—or at least I don’t think so—it’s just that she just doesn’t want to burden anyone.  But even when I felt that we were close, I never thought it was in my place to ask her what was wrong.  I hated it.”

“What changed?”

Nozomi smiles, and there’s a tender look in her eyes that calms you, watching her think so fondly of Eli.  “Well, I just asked!”

You raise an eyebrow.  “Um, that’s it?”

“Well—yes.  It took me a while to find the courage, because I thought that maybe she would get annoyed at me or find me too invasive.  But I did it.  I asked, I pried, I wheedled it out of her—and it was messy.  We both cried a lot, but there’s no way I’d ever regret it.  Elichi and I have seen each other at our lowest points, but we love each other even more for it.”

Love.  It’s a struggle not to blush after hearing Nozomi actually _say_ it.  “I’m glad,” you manage to squeak out.

“As am I,” she says, and she places her hand atop yours, staring at you intently.  “But I think it’s your turn to take that leap.”

You stiffen, breaking eye contact and shuffling back.  “What are you getting at?”

Nozomi withdraws, thankfully, after sensing your discomfort.  “I’m saying that you should just bite the bullet and talk to her.  Corner her if you have to.  Just don’t let her slip away.”

“Why do _I_ have to?” you ask, feeling your head start to throb.  Is it honestly _your_ responsibility?  You cross your legs, stuffing your hands in your pockets.  “Aren’t you close with her, too?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried.  She’s hiding something, and she’s not willing to tell me.”

You frown.  Even though Nozomi has her fair share of goofy moments, she’s the most emotionally sensitive and perceptive person in the group.  On top of that, Nozomi has known Nico for the longest out of all of you.  Basically, if Nozomi doesn’t know, then what chance do you have?  “What makes you think I’m any different?”

You both stay quiet for a few moments.  It’s in the silence that you notice she’s taken out her tarot cards, riffle shuffling them on her lap.  After she straightens out the deck on her palm, she sets them on the fallboard and turns back to you.  “I think we’d be both lying if we said you aren’t.  I think you know.”

You frown, wondering not for the first time what Nozomi actually means, if she knows more than she lets on.  “You put too much faith in me, Nozomi.  I’m actually not so sure.”

Nozomi smiles again, but this time it’s one of her frustratingly cryptic smiles, like she sees something that you don’t.  “I think you know,” she repeats, placing her hand atop the deck, drumming her fingers.  “But I also think you like to tell yourself contradictory things to protect yourself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you retort, your headache increasing tenfold after hearing her accusation.

“Is it so ridiculous?” she says.  “It’s logical, isn’t it?  To place self-imposed limitations on yourself so that you don’t have to try, so that you don’t have to experience failure.  People are funny like that, I think.  People would rather not try than to fail.”

Failure.  You wonder what that even means to someone like Nozomi, who’s never really had anything to lose but everything to gain.  Nozomi’s never had to be perfect.  “There are consequences that come with failure that people don’t want to face,” you point out.  “Is that so wrong, to want to avoid that?”

“No,” she says.  “It’s cowardly”—you grimace at the bluntness of her words—“but it’s not wrong.  I think you’re afraid of being hurt.  That’s why you don’t want to talk to her.”

“I—”  You swallow a lump in your throat.  This is the first time you’ve heard it being spoken aloud, but from the way your heart hammers against your chest, you know her words ring true.  You hate how Nozomi can read you so well—better than you can read yourself.

“If you don’t trust in your gut, then trust in the cards, Maki-chan!”  Nozomi picks up the first card from the top of the deck and flips it over.

The Sun.

“I think it’s time for you to get some answers.”

* * *

When you formulate a plan to corner Nico, you clue in the rest of the group.  Everyone makes plans that day to leave the dorm, but it’s all a setup.  They’ve helped make an opening for you, convincing her that you’d be gone for the day, too.

Which means she’s the only one at home.  Aside from you.

You’re already standing at the front door, arms crossed and back rim-rod straight, when Nico rounds the corner of the hallway.  You have to hide the smug smile that creeps up your lips as she catches sight of you, jumping back in shock and dropping bags and papers, clutching her chest.  “Maki.”

“That’s me,” you reply, leaning against the door so she can’t just escape.

“What are you doing here?” Nico asks, narrowing her eyes at you, ignoring the scattered items on the floor.  She walks up to you, briskly, and your eyes linger on the sleek business outfit she’s wearing.

“I live here.  As do you.”

“Yeah.”  She puffs out her cheeks, clearly not amused by your sass.  “But I thought you had to rehearse with Eli and Umi?  _Soldier Game_ rehearsal?  Really, why are you here?”

“We lied.”

Nico’s eyes widen before narrowing again.  Seeing her get thrown off by the deception and betrayal is disgustingly satisfying.  She points at you, accusingly.  “You—”

“I need answers,” you interrupt, pulling her in, taking pleasure in her surprised gasp as you flip her over and push her against the door, pinning her wrists.  You feel her pant heavily against your neck before you can see it—the shaky rise and fall of her chest.  Your skin tingles.  “I need to know why you’ve been avoiding everyone, why you’ve been avoiding _me_.”

“Maki,” she says, and you’re surprised that she’s not trying harder to break free.  “I’m leaving our company.”

Your mind goes blank.  Your grip slackens.  “What?”

“I’m quitting μ’s.”  She’s ducking her face, but she still isn’t trying to escape, even though your arms have fallen limp to your sides.

“This is—”  You swallow.  Breathe.  “—a little sudden.”

“It is.”  You watch as she curls into herself, rubbing either side of her arms.

You reach for one of her hands, hesitantly, prying it off her arms and holding it in yours instead.  She doesn’t stop you.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I couldn’t—I didn’t…”  You lace your fingers together, hoping to encourage her, to make her feel at ease.  “I was afraid.”

Your shoulders slump.  “Why, though?”  You try to rack your brain for anything you might’ve done wrong.  (There have been lots—too many.)  “Was it—”

“No!”  You flinch.  Nico slams a fist on the door but recoils at the noise, as though surprised by her own outburst.  She shrinks back, her voice mellow again.  “It’s—it’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t even finish my question,” you say.

“I knew.”

You press your lips together at her answer.  Everything she says, everything she does is so _cryptic_.  It makes your head hurt.  You have no idea what either of you are referring to anymore, and it’s _nauseating_.

“Do the others know?” you ask, trying for a different tactic.  If she isn’t going to be up front about you, then maybe she will be about the rest of the group.

“Not yet.”

You bite the inside of your lip.  So she hasn’t even told anyone else.  The last time she kept a secret this big, it was back in high school—her family situation.  Maybe this is a similar case.  “Does the company know?”

“I’m pursuing a solo career, so yes.”

“A _solo_ —”  Your blood boils.  You rip your hands away from hers, stepping backwards abruptly.  “You mean to say that the reason you’ve been avoiding everyone is because you want to pursue a _solo career_.”  Everything clicks.  Her business attire.  You turn to the papers on the floor.  Contracts.  She’s going to a meeting.  And before, in your last encounter with her—when she said it was too late, she meant—

“That’s—”

“ _No_ ,” you cut her off, feeling your jaws clench.  “Let me _fucking finish_.”  You usually don’t swear, but it’s so satisfying watching Nico hunch back and cringe.  Good.  You want her to hurt.  “I spent this whole time thinking that maybe you didn’t stick around because _I_ did something wrong.  I made so many excuses for you—I told myself that maybe you were just too busy.  Maybe you had family business to take care of.  I wanted to _believe_ in you,” you grind out, stepping back into her space.  “I want to believe you didn’t drop off the face of the earth because you didn’t care.”

Her lip trembles.  Is she feeling guilty?  You hope so.  Propping yourself with your hands against the door, on either side of her body, you continue, “Everyone was so _worried_ , too.  Oh god.  You know, Honoka and Nozomi came to talk to me about you because they wanted to know if you were okay.”  You laugh bitterly.  “ _Okay_ ,” you repeat.  “You’re more than just ‘ _okay_ ,’ aren’t you.  You have a whole new path in front of you, and you _threw us under the bus_ for it.”  Her whole body is shaking now.  Her expression contorts to a snarl.  “Oh, you’re fucking fantastic now, huh.”

“Maki—”

“Oh, and you want to know the best part?” you say, ignoring her, leaning close to her face, close enough that you can smell her strawberry-scented lip gloss.  “Honoka got mad at _me_ for saying that you don’t care—but guess what.  Turns out you really fucking don’t, do you.”  Your voice cracks at the end, and you realize that you’re shaking, too.  Your eyes sting.  God, don’t cry _now_.  Not in front of _her_.

You watch her hands ball into fists, and you expect her to punch you, to sneer at you, to throw in some snarky, derisive comment— _anything_ that would piss you off—but instead she wraps her hands behind your neck and pulls you down, pressing her lips flush against yours.

You gasp into her.  Your first kiss isn’t what you’ve always dreamed it’d be.  It’s not like the fairy tales your mother used to read you, where the kisses are always quiet and slow, underneath the warm blanket of moonlight in a gazebo.  It’s not like in movies, where couples kiss in the middle of a rainstorm, laughing as they both get drenched, not having a care in the world.

Your first kiss isn’t like either of those.  Your first kiss is with another girl—your dear friend of three years—and it’s against a hard wooden door.  There’s no polite shyness, no sweet caress.  Nico is rough, demanding as she drags her mouths along yours, teeth grazing against your skin.  She’s kissing you.  You’re supposed to be _angry_ , but she’s actually _kissing_ you, and it’s not until she slides her hands to cup your cheeks, pressing her body even harder against you—as though she’s desperate for _some_ sort of reaction—that you remember to kiss her back.

As you tilt your head and run your tongue against her bottom lip, tasting strawberries and salt—is she crying?—her breath hitches.  Nico’s mouth parts, but before you can take advantage of the opening, she surprises you by kissing the tip of your tongue.  You whine into her, reflexively burrowing your fingers beneath the tresses of her hair, heart racing as she breathes into you between kisses, hot and needy.

When you kiss her back, you kiss her _hard_ , nipping at her lips, wanting her to feel the frustration you’ve felt for so long.  At some point, she rubs your cheeks, gently, slowing the pace with drawn out pecks, and for the first time in months, you can finally tell what she’s trying to say: _I care, I care, I_ do _care_.

It throws you off balance when she breaks the kiss.  You want to lean again, _needing_ to feel her, but she puts one hand on your chest, keeping you at bay.  The other hand continues to stroke your face, and that’s when you realize your cheeks are wet.

“You’re crying,” she says, breathing heavily.

Damn it.  You sniffle, mirroring her and wiping her tears away with your thumb.  You lean down and press your forehead against hers.  “So are you.”

Nico grips the front of your shirt.  “Why did you kiss me back?”

Without missing a beat, you respond, “For the same reason that you even kissed me in the first place.”  You lean down, wanting to see what sort of expression she’s making.  “Maybe?”

She’s blushing.  It’s a pretty sight.  “I love you, Maki,” she whispers, and your mind goes blank again, but in a way that makes your heartbeat pace in double time.  You’re certain that if your heart wasn’t caged between your ribs, it’d be soaring to the stratosphere.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner.  I thought you didn’t feel the same way.”

You furrow your eyebrows.  That doesn’t make sense.  “Why did you kiss me, then, if you thought I didn’t?”

“Because I wasn’t thinking.  Because I thought it was my last chance.”

“Last chance?” you echo, tilting your head.  “What do you mean?”

“I’ll answer you, but, um…”  She stares meaningfully at the space between you two and nods her head back to the door.  “I’m a little.  Cramped.”  Oh.  “Can we move to the couch?”

You clear your throat, flushing.  “Right,” you say, pushing yourself off her and leading her to the center of the living room, sitting next to her on the sofa but making sure to leave her plenty of room in case she needs it.

Nico doesn’t take it.  She slides next to you instead, placing her head on your shoulder and holding your hands.  “Do you remember that day, when we first started practicing _Wild Stars_ together?”

You nod.  She takes it as a sign to continue.  “You asked me something weird—something about why I thought we were the best pair.”  Nico traces circles around your wrist, idly, but it sends a shiver down your spine—the good kind, this time.  Her touches are warm again, like sunshine after a cloudy day.

“Yeah.”

“And then after I gave you a long, heartfelt answer, you turned around and told me that you just wanted to know so that you could act more appropriately for the fans.”  She laughs.

You cringe.  “Sorry.  I didn’t mean it.”

Nico shuffles, leaning up to press a kiss against your cheek before responding, “I know that _now_.  But back then, I thought you were just bitterly tolerating all the ship pandering, or something.  You’re stupidly selfless sometimes.”

“I mean—I _was_ bitterly tolerating it,” you say, “I hated how we had to play it up.  I hated how fake everything was.”

Nico’s thumb presses against your palm.  “But it didn’t feel fake to me.”  She looks to the side, biting her lip.  “I wanted any excuse I could get to spend time with you.  The past few months before we started ship pandering, we were all just swamped in work.  And I missed you.  I missed spending time with you.  But when you made it clear you were just putting up with it, I just—”

Oh.  You squeeze her hands.  “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, I swear.  I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, I suspected, but I was still hurt, you know?  And I felt a little desperate.  Then, I thought that, maybe if I played it off as a joke, then I could get away with it—with kissing you—just once.”  She scratches her temple, staring back at you, but it’s a distant look, as though the memories are playing behind her eyes, haunting her.  “But then you pushed me away, and I knew I just blew it.  There was no going back.”

“That’s why you avoided me,” you say, blinking.  “That’s why you’re pursuing a solo career.”

She smacks her forehead.   “Ahh, I’m dumb, aren’t I?  If only the fans knew that that precious Number One Super Idol Nico-Nii was such a doofus,” she says, but all you can pay attention to is the surge of anger in your chest.  She’s so—

“Oh my god, you _are_ dumb.”  Nico cowers back, as though she hadn’t expected you to agree.  “You’re _so_ dumb,” you repeat, clutching her shoulders and shaking her gently.  “I hate you so much.”

She grimaces.  “What—”

“Do you know _why_ I pushed you away that day?”

“Umm, well, I thought it was because you didn’t like me, but—”

“It’s because you were trying to play it off as a _joke_ ,” you say, letting the words sink into her.  Her jaw drops open.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.”  You withdraw from her, crossing your arms, sticking your chin up and huffing.

“But _heyyy_!”  Nico grabs you again by your sleeve and pulls you in, forcing you to look at her.  “I wasn’t even sure if you _liked_ me, okay.  You’re so hard to understand sometimes.  I’m an idol, not a mind reader.  And you played it off like you were just trying to appease the fans.  What was I supposed to think?”

You flush, pouting at her.  Okay—that’s fair.  Sometimes you don’t even understand yourself.  “Actually, to be honest, I didn’t realize my feelings until later.  So I guess you’re right.”  You rub your forehead.  “Geez, all of this mess could’ve been avoided if we’d just talked sooner.  Now that we know how we feel about each other—” You blush.  You still can’t believe this is real.  “—we should probably work on communicating better.”

“Aw, Maki!”  Nico throws herself to your side, the impact causing you to squeal as topple over and fall flat on the couch.  “You’ve finally confessed your undying love for me!” she says, making kissy faces at you.

You roll your eyes, frowning before pulling her in and claiming her lips again, feeling distinctly satisfied when you feel her smirk relax into a gentle smile.  Your second kiss is a little more like how you imagined your first kiss to be—steady, gentle.  She presses into you, shaking, and you pull her down, wrapping your arms around her back, fisting the fabric of her blazer.  When you drag your lips across the underside of her jaw, though, she pulls away, breathless.

“M-Maki—wait.  There’s still something I need to tell you.  About the solo career thing.”

You feel like you’ve been dunked into a bucket of ice.  You totally forgot.  “Oh.  It’s not too late to undo everything, is it?”

Nico pushes herself upright, straightening her clothes before helping you up as well.  “I lied.”

You raise an eyebrow.  “What?”

“I-I’m—well.”  She laces her fingers together, placing them on her lap.  “I’m not quitting μ’s.  Not anymore, at least.  I actually haven’t signed any contracts yet, and I never did tell the company I was leaving.  I was going to do that today, actually, but then—”  She turns to you, smiling knowingly.  Oh.  You blush, making a mental note to thank Nozomi later, for encouraging you to talk to her.  You would’ve been too late otherwise.  “Well.  You know the rest.  I, um.  Hope you’re not too mad.”

Sometimes actions speak louder than words, so instead of saying anything, you kiss her forcefully on the mouth.

* * *

Somehow, through the haze of frenzied touches and kisses, you end up on your bed, you on top, with both of your shirts unbuttoned and bras unclasped.

“Maki,” she gasps when your hand travels along the exposed skin between her unbuttoned collared shirt, snaking past across bare stomach, adrenaline pumping frantically throughout your body the closer your trembling fingers get to her breasts.  A sharp rush of blood travels to the area between your legs.  You reach under her bra, hands cupping her small breasts, reveling at how soft they are.  So this is what it feels like, to touch another girl, to touch _Nico_.  Her chest isn’t as full as yours, but you love the way they feel, the way she looks when she’s trying not to moan as your fingertips trace over her nipples in small circles.

When you feel her grind her hips against yours, a muted sort of pleasure rushes down your spine, and suddenly, it feels like you have way too many clothes between you.  You want to feel her skin against yours, to soak in her warmth.  All these barriers just won’t do.

“Nico-chan,” you rasp out, retracting your hands and placing them at the hem of her shirt.  “Can I take these clothes off?”

“Wait,” she says, panting heavily, placing her hands on yours.  “Are you sure you want to?”

You crawl back up to her, meeting her at eye level before leaning down to kiss her.  “I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything in my life,” you breathe, letting go of her shirt to trace the contours of her jaw, pausing at the spot in her neck where you can feel her pulse.  Maybe it’s just the hormones talking, or maybe it’s just that you’ve been so deprived of her existence that it makes you want to take back all you can, to make up for lost time.  “Are _you_ okay with this?” you ask.  “Is this too fast?”

Nico answers you by tugging at your sleeves, and you waste no time shrugging off your shirt and bra, leaning down to drag your lips across her neck, kissing your way to her pulse point.  You pause to whimper when you feel her wrap her arms behind your back and push your bodies flush together, your erect nipples brushing against her warm skin.  It’s a strange sensation.  You’ve never touched them sexually before—you know that they’re erogenous zones from all the articles you’ve read—but it’s a different experience altogether, feeling firsthand how the pleasant tingles travel from your breasts straight to your groin.

She lifts up your chin, forcing you to look at her.  She’s grinning.  “You’re sensitive, Maki,” she teases, sing-song.

You lean out of her grasp and duck your face.  “Shut up.  I’ve never done this before.”

“Really?”  Nico runs her hands along your stomach, much like an imitation of what you did earlier.  When she reaches to squeeze at your breasts, she asks, “Have you ever touched yourself?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, biting down on your lips and forcing yourself not to moan.  “Y-Yes,” you admit.  “Twice.”  Maybe three times.  All thinking about her.

“Wow.  That’s not that many,” she says, voice husky.  “No wonder why you’re so responsive.”  The moan you’ve been trying to hold in rips out when she takes your nipples and tugs them.  Damn it.

“It’s okay, Maki.  I want to hear you.  I want to know how I’m making you feel,” Nico whispers, pinching the peaks of your breasts between her thumb and forefinger.  Your body trembles, losing balance as the sensations sizzle across your skin.  Your head spins.  You whimper again when she presses a kiss against your ear, her breath hot when she demands, “I want to hear you moan.”

“But it’s embarrassing,” you protest, weakly.  You don’t like that she’s got you in her grasps now, fiddling with you as you writhe defenselessly.  You want to focus on _her_.  Reclaiming what little you have of your wits, you force yourself to grab her hands, stopping her ministrations, and whisper back, “Let me hear you moan instead.”

With a renewed hunger, you lift up her bra and lean down to run the moist tip of your tongue across the underside of her breast, sliding it over to her nipple and sucking, pleased when it stiffens in your mouth.  The melodic sounds of her moans ring satisfyingly in your ears, but it’s not enough.  “More,” you say, “I want to hear more.”

Nico takes your hand and guides it between her legs, taking you underneath her skirt, her panties.  Your fingers meet hot, pliant flesh.  “Touch me, then,” she breathes, and you instinctively grind into her hips, wanting to quell the surge of pleasure rushing to your loins.  _Shit_ , she’s hot.

“You feel amazing,” you say, looking at her in wonder as she screws her eyes shut, thrusting her hips up to rub firmly against your fingers.  You respond by rubbing in slow circles—mostly because you don’t know what else to do but also because it looks like she still enjoys it anyway.

The clit, you remember.  You should rub the clit.  Your fingers move upward, finding a small nub, and press down on it.

She squeals.  Harshly.  Nico grabs your wrist, halting your movements.  “Ow, _Maki_ ,” she hisses.

You wince.  “Was that not—”

“Too soon,” Nico says.  “Waaay too soon.  You need to build it up first, you dumb virgin.”  She whacks you on the arm.

You glare at her.  “ _Hey_.  You’re a virgin, too, you know.”  Your eyes widen.  Wait a minute.  _Is_ she—

“Details, details,” she replies, waving you off.  You let out a sigh of relief.  So this _is_ both of your first times.  “I’ve jerked off more than you have—”  You flush at her word choice.  How crude.  “—and by default, that makes me more experienced.  So, hah.”  Nico sticks her tongue out at you.

 “ _Fine_.”  You decide to indulge her, rolling your eyes.  “Sorry I hurt you earlier.”  You lean in and press your foreheads together, keeping eye contact with her as you murmur, “Teach me how to do it right.  Teach me how to make you come.”

You watch the rise and fall of her throat as she gulps.  Her eyes dilate.  “Well,” she says, voice hoarse.  “You _did_ say we should communicate better, so this is a good start.”

You hum in agreement.

“You have to start slow, Maki,” Nico tells you, her hand covering yours as she uses them to spread her labia.  She closes her eyes, letting out a sigh.  “I like to get myself wet first—like this.”  She takes your fingers and drags them to the entrance of her vagina, and sure enough, she’s definitely wet—so, so wet—and she uses the stickiness to coat the rest of her outer lips.  So this is how she does it.  The throbbing between your legs increases tenfold to know she’s wet because of _you_.

She retracts her hand, leaving you alone with your fingers against her labia.  “Um.”  You lick your lips.  “Now what?”

Nico buries the side of her face against the pillow.  “Rub me,” she commands.  “Touch me everywhere other than my clit.  Tease me until I _beg_ you to touch it.”

You follow her orders, running your fingers along her swollen lips, dipping in between her silken grooves, dragging your thumb around her clit but never on it.  Her moans increase in pitch the longer you go on, and when you feel her start to grind against your hand, that’s when gasps, “Oh my god, _Maki_.  Touch my clit— _please._ ”

She’s gripping the bed sheets as you swiftly bring your fingers against her sensitive nub.  “ _Harder_ ,” she demands, quivering uncontrollably.  God, she is so beautiful, you think, pressingly more firmly against her before leaning in and capturing her lips.  Nico moans into your mouth and you swallow in the sounds, feeling them reverberate against your body. 

“Faster, faster, _faster_ ,” she whimpers in between kisses.  “Oh my god.  _Yes_.  Yes yes yes, _Maki_ , I’m gonna—”

When she comes, it’s breathtaking.  Her face is screwed in pleasure as she lets out a high-pitched moan.  Her swollen lips pulsate around your fingers.  Her hips still thrust weakly against you.  You press your lips firmly against hers, enjoying the feeling of her softening moans as she comes down from the afterglow.  “I love you, Nico-chan,” you whisper, staring into her eyes, smiling.

Nico grins at you, pinching your cheeks.  You pout at her.  “Maki, that was so _good_.  I’m really proud of you.”   She gives you a peck on the lips before throwing you a wink.  “Wow.  So, first time, huh?”  Her grin morphs into a smirk.  She puffs out her chest, closing her eyes in a self-satisfied manner.  Oh, great.  “Of course, leave it up to Super Idol Nico-Nii to teach her girlfriend how to give the best orgasm on the first ti—”

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” you cut her off, kissing her roughly.  Nico laughs into your mouth, running her fingers through your hair before hooking her ankle above your leg and flipping you over.

You flush, realizing that your wrists are already pinned against the bed.  “What—”

“It’s your turn, Maki.  I get to hear _you_ moan now,” she says, and you have to shut your eyes when another wave of pleasure rolling to your nether region.

You turn your head to the side.  “Y-You don’t _have_ —”

“I know I don’t _have_ to”—she smiles at you again—“but I want to.”  Stroking your cheek, she asks, “May I?”

You grumble, looking back at her, hating how cute she looks.  How have you ever been able to deny her.  “Okay,” you say, and the moment you give her permission, she’s already worked her way down, licking along your navel, before settling between your legs.

Oh.  This is a familiar sight.  You flush, recalling the first time you masturbated, imagining a scenario just like this.  _Gosh_ , you’re probably soaking wet, and she’s going to _see_ it.  How embarrassing.

When Nico lifts up your skirt, you close your eyes and brace yourself, waiting for her to do something.  “I’m sorry, Maki,” she whispers, breathing against your labia.  “You must’ve been feeling really horny before, making me come.”  You squirm.  Even though you’re still wearing your panties, you’re still really, stupidly sensitive.  Maybe it’s because just the fact that it’s _Nico_ , the girl you’ve probably been in love with for three years.

“I—”  You gulp.  “—not really.”  You shuffle against the sheets.

“Really?” Nico asks, pressing a kiss against the cloth of your panties, right below your clit.  You whimper.  _Shit_.  “What was that about being more honest and communicative, again?”

“ _Fine_ ,” you concede, throwing away your pride.  “I’m fucking horny, and I _need_ you to lick my pussy.  _Now._ ”

In the next second, she’s pulled your panties to the side and dragged her hot, hot tongue down from your entrance all the way up to your clit.  “God, Maki, you’re so hot,” she says against your labia, and the way her breath caresses you makes you whine, embarrassingly loud.  “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since you pulled that stunt at our BiBi concert.  I sooo wanted to put you in your place.”

Your hips buck up uncontrollably after hearing her admission.  She grasps your hips and keeps you anchored, alternating between pressing kisses against your labia and sucking on it, grazing her teeth gently across the skin.  “I love you, Maki.”

You moan, impulsively burrowing your hands in her hair, wanting to push her closer.  “Nico-chan, _please_.”

She takes the hint.  Nico licks your clit, swirling in wide circles, and you can’t help but rock your hips back and forth to match her rhythm, crying out when she breaks the routine to flick her tongue rapidly against your swollen nub.

“Oh my god,” you gasp.  “Yessssss, Nico-chan—I love you, I love you, I _love_ you—”

You scream when your orgasm racks your body, pulses of pleasure riding in waves right to your toes.  Nico holds you down as she sucks on your clit, caressing her tongue gently on the nub as you come back down.

“Wow,” you manage to say, catching your breath.  “That was…”

“Incredible,” Nico finishes for you, pulling herself back up and smiling at you tenderly.  “You were incredible.”

“No way,” you protest, pushing back her bangs and pressing a kiss to her forehead.  “You were.  You were the one doing all the work.”  You wink.  “Super Idol Nico-Nii really is the best.”

You grin when she blushes.  It’s rare that you ever indulge her, but when you do, she always gives the best reactions.  It’s cute.  You should surprise her more often.  “Flatterer,” Nico mumbles before capturing your lips, parting your lips with her tongue, and it’s with a half-mortified, half-curious sort of amusement that you realize you can taste yourself.  When you break apart to breathe, she settles on your chest and nuzzles against you.

“Thank you,” you say, feeling a compelling urge to show her your gratitude, to show her how highly you think of her.  Maybe it’s all the post-sex hormones. 

“What for?”

The answer comes out easily.  “For being there for me for three whole years.  For believing in everyone, for helping us push forward.  I think we’re going to have a spectacular time, working as idols, and it’s all thanks to you.”

You kiss the crown of her head, feeling liberated when you voice out something you used to be afraid of saying:

“μ's is nothing without you, Nico-chan.”


End file.
